


Undertow

by LatteWolf



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Denial of Feelings, Depression, F/F, Healing, Hospitals, Imagination, Like Hannibal flavor of dark humor, M/M, Minor Injuries, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Third Person Limited, Post-Canon, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Pseudo-Season Four, Season/Series 04, Some Humor, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Will Graham is a Mess, Will Graham suffering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25272286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LatteWolf/pseuds/LatteWolf
Summary: So, here, where no one can see, he lets himself think of him.“Hannibal.”He drops the book he had in a vice grip.The spoken name is a disburden, a declaration, a response, and a plea all at once.Crashing to his knees, heartsick and broken, pushed beyond all preconceived notions of “the edge,” Will collapses into a heap of his own misery. His days spent numb in the hospital were not so much efforts of strength than efforts to bury his sorrow. In the grave of his old self, that sorrow sprouted and pushed through, nourished by his very attempts to keep it below.-Will Graham is recovering from the fall, struggling to adjust to the world of the waking as Hannibal is presumed dead. Trying to move on with life, nothing is able to return to normal after Will has felt true euphoria.Season 4 replacement fic (without any "grander manipulations").
Relationships: Alana Bloom/Margot Verger, Jimmy Price/Brian Zeller, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1 - Didžkukuliai

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest and most challenging fic I've ever worked on, and hopefully that comes across in my writing. I will try to update regularly, but I prefer to have the next chapter already finished or in progress before I post.  
> I do have a playlist for this fic:  
> [Hannibal - Undertow](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4VoDLVjIcAcZ2i5grm0GHh?si=z6_ksTMSRraf0T7mnnCz6g)  
> I put a lot of songs from my favorite Hannibal edits (no shame) and whatever made me think of them. Lots of yearning, but there's something in there for everyone.  
> ***Fixed the annoying doublespace

The day Will woke up, it was raining.

The disorienting feeling of waking in an unfamiliar room knocked the breath out of him, but the impending fear soon took its place in his lungs. Will had awoken in hospital rooms before; however, this was different.

This time, something was missing.

Every breath he had ever taken, all the words he had ever spoken, any memories he had ever made rushed back to him at an alarming speed, the force of remembering himself impacting like a bullet.

_A bullet-_

_An image flashes of shattering glass and spilled wine._

Will’s chest heaves in place, constricting further with each strained inhale. All that is present in his mind is pain, every memory laced with some stinging ache. The muffled noise of frantic beeping clouds his ears as he scrambles for cognizance.

“Will?”

A voice penetrates the hazy stillness, and Will reaches for it like a buoy adrift at sea. The crashing waves are deafening, but he manages to anchor himself back to reality. Once he is drawn back to the present, the excruciating pain of his healing wounds hits like whiplash.

“Will? Can you hear me?”

The setting slowly bleeds through- the image of Alana hovering over him before a backdrop of blinding fluorescent lights and a dingy hospital room. Her face is nearly devoid of life, mussed hair, indicating the uncomfortable nights she most likely spent here.

Where is here?

“Where am-”

“Will-”

“Alana? How long have… Is h-”

He scrambles to sit up, breathing labored, voice sounding as if it were being played back through a broken speaker. A wave of nausea threatens the back of his throat, but he manages to stifle it in its place.

“Alana how long-”

“ _Will_.”

She reaches a hand to hover over his own tentatively, then draws back as she makes contact, appearing burned at the touch. The deeply set creases around her eyes frame a painful expression, bordering angry. Her demeanor changes as her eyes study his.

“I’m just saying goodbye.” Alana says.

“Goodbye? Wha- I just-” Will mumbles incoherently, still reeling.

“I can’t be here, I _can’t_ ,” Alana starts, staring into space, “I’m not here to answer any questions or help you recover. I don’t know how I let myself be here this long.” Her latter statement is clearly directed at herself, giving Will a notion of the argument she’s bringing about internally. As her expression hardens and shoulders tense, he wonders who prevailed.

“Why are you here?” he asks. 

Dr. Bloom’s gaze locks with his, and her uneasiness visibly melts away. Behind her eyes, she seems to have answered whatever questions she entered the room with.

“Closure,” she says.

“Is this enough closure for you?” Will asks. It comes out far more spiteful than he intended. Dr. Bloom ignores him.

“Jack called two days ago that they thought you were waking up. I caught a plane without thinking it through. When I got here you weren’t conscious, but... I couldn’t leave without seeing you one last time. I… I needed to be sure it was the last time.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Will utters.

“It does.”

The statement is spoken with finality. Will chooses not to challenge it.

“Well this is certainly a warm welcome back to the world of the waking,” Will says. Dr. Bloom smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She nods to herself, and Will prepares for the departing warmth of her company, what little that it was.

“It was nice to see you,” Dr. Bloom says. He can see she isn’t committed to her own words as they leave her mouth. She gathers herself to leave, moving for the door.

“That’s- just like that? Can I have an address, a phone number? Anything?” Will asks.

The following beat of silence gives him his answer. Dr. Bloom turns back before leaving.

“I’m working on closing doors. If we were ever truly friends, please just let this one stay closed,” she says.

She swings the door to slam it, catching it at the last moment and pressing it closed softly. Will lays back on the rough pillows stacked behind him, closing his eyes to clear his mind. The soft pattering of raindrops outside gradually grows to a rushing cascade of water outside Will’s beige-tinted cell. Eventually, the thundering roars of the dreary weather seep into a blur of white noise as he drifts into a disquieted sleep.

***

The night Jack Crawford visited, it was storming.

The streaking white lightning against the gloomy backdrop of dark clouds painted a grim image of Jack, sitting in a chair at Will’s bedside. He appears in worse shape than Dr. Bloom, and despite seemingly trying to veil his unhinged state with a pressed suit and neutral expression, his dark eye bags and clenched fists speak volumes. After entering the room, he simply sits there, staring at the thundering downpour cascading against the window.

“I imagine the bureau is looking into Francis Dolarhyde, or whatever’s left of him. I don’t know what they found at the scene beyond what’s in the paper, but considering the mess that was left behind, even after being a hostage, you’d best prepare yourself for whatever’s coming,” Jack says into the room.

_Hostage is convenient,_ Will thinks. Perhaps time and space have grown tired of piling every worst possible scenario onto one person. He doesn’t imagine going on the stand is going to be much fun, though.

“I don’t think any amount of preparation can help me,” Will muses, “I don’t know how conducive a courtroom is to an already awkward reunion.”

Jack’s neutral expression falters. He looks over to Will, mouth hung ajar.

“Courtroom?” Jack asks.

Will returns the look of confusion.

“What? Was murder legalized in the time I was out? Shame, it seems I missed out on all the fun.” Will says sardonically.

Jack looks back towards the window. Will’s smile falters.

“There’s not going to be a trial, Will… they don’t have him in custody. They don’t even think Hann-” Jack says, cutting himself off when he sees Will’s face.

Will’s heart sinks to the floor, hands trembling.

_No that’s not- it’s not- he can’t-_

“You were in critical condition. Everyone was surprised you were alive; we still can’t believe you’ve made it this far. The guys called me with details for my ‘peace of mind’ and ‘for old time’s sake’. According to Zeller, the team didn’t find a body, and there’s no way he could’ve gone anywhere. They said the tides were high that night, Will. I don’t know what to tell you.”

While Jack speaks, Will erupts in frantic, strangled breaths, clutching a fist into his hospital gown, nails digging into his chest. The roaring crashes of cloudbursts are obscured as his senses focus on his pain- the dull aching, the sharp stinging, the itchy burning- it’s all magnified to the point that his body falls numb. Jack’s voice is a distant sound that Will can’t focus on. He can’t tell the moment that the blurred moment fazes to black, and he loses consciousness.

From the darkness, he can sense bleary lights behind his closed eyelids and various muffled noises filing in from a distance.

When he comes to, it seems that he was out for quite some time. Jack is by the window, and as the volume of the world is returned to normal, Will realizes he’s on the phone. When the topic of conversation becomes apparent, he goes back to looking as if he was asleep.

“-He’s not exactly an open book. Well, I don’t think my opinion is of much help considering my success rate judging his character before. That’s… I’m not sure. I don’t know if my belief in his innocence is founded in experience or just my stubborn desire to see him as a good person. Of course he’s not blameless. Still, the look on his face when I told him about Hannibal was pure heartbreak.” Jack says before pausing. For a moment, Will thinks he’s been caught eavesdropping, but Jack continues.

“Letting revenge cloud your judgment won’t help you at this point in time. Believe me, I know a thing or two about letting go. Right now, I’m letting go of my biases. Will has nothing left. I’m going to help him get back on his feet. If I was a better man, I would do more. Right now, I’m focusing on forgiving. What happened? Ah, duty calls, I see. No, don’t worry about it, I’ll fill you in as soon as I get anything. Of course. Take care, doctor.”

Jack sighs, muttering sadly to himself before leaving the room. The moment the door shuts behind him, Will catches his breath.

Will remains in his hospital bed, alone, with the weight of their speculation. He hasn’t concluded on how he should feel about the conversations occurring behind his back. Will supposes they were always present. Now, though, they hold a tone of pity rather than concern. The air left in the room feels soured.

***

The morning Jimmy and Brian visit, the sky is shrouded in a light grey blanket. Between the mist, beaming white rays pierce the cloud layer, illuminating the expanse of land below. Will’s injuries have healed to the point that he can leave the bed- even if only in a wheelchair, strung up with tubes- and visit the hospital gardens to soak in as much nature as possible. Or, in this case, soak up the company of old friends.

Surrounded by the lush ivy and ferns freshly coated with dew, Will can breathe air that hasn’t cycled the stagnant fog of his room again. Watching the garden snails wander the leaves of the elephant’s ears does wonders for clearing his mind. 

Today, his chair is parked among the foliage accompanied by friends from a past life. Seeing Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller in the present is unusual but comforting. It reminds him of sometime simpler.

“You wouldn’t believe it, the whole room was filled wall-to-wall with skin costumes, all custom-made truly depraved shit. This dude must have had at least 10 clothing racks that looked straight out of a clearance shelf from hell, and this wasn’t even his main operation” Jimmy says.

“He probably should have stuck with sewing as a hobby, the guy couldn’t dispose of a body to save his life. The place was a mess, and coupled with it being a crowded basement, it took days to catalog the whole place. The whole forensics team has it out for the dude by now,” Brian says.

“Brian’s just got a personal vendetta against the killer because he slipped on a human skin dress,” Jimmy adds.

Brian glares at him.

“This is why it’s Zeller-Price and not Price-Zeller. Everyone’s fallen down at a crime scene at least once, it’s not my fault they make the bottoms of Tyvek suits so damn slippery!” Brian says.

Will chuckles at their hijinks and stories from work, surprisingly content with being around an average, well-adjusted couple. He would’ve thought he’d be annoyed or feel insulted, but a visit from the few okay-joes he knew was pleasant. Maddeningly polite and average, but an improvement nonetheless.

“How’re the dogs doing?” Will asks. The tremble in his voice comes out before he can stop it. If either of them notice they’re awfully kind about it.

“They’re happy. Wilson still seems like he’s waiting for you, even after this long. When we picked them up she gave us a blanket that I’m assuming was yours and his. Wilson doesn’t sleep without it,” Jimmy says.

It takes everything out of Will not to cry then and there thinking of Wilson. He appreciates them not mentioning her by name, that probably would have sent him over the edge. Will tries to imagine the dogs happy, hopefully forgetting him and moving on with their lives.

“I really wasn’t counting on having kids so early but hey, I can’t complain,” Brian laughs.

Jimmy pulls out his phone and swipes through pictures of the dogs playing in their yard, biting at sprinkler water, doing zoomies in their living room leaving mud tracks on the shag carpet.Will sees an apprehensive look in Price’s eye, knowing he's hoping to avoid an awkward conversation that he was forced to endure years ago with Alana. Will knows they’d let him visit when he gets out of the hospital, but only that.

He looks at the images scrolling in front of him and feels a phantom emptiness. A life he won’t have again, or perhaps never did.

“When you came back to the lab- was it- did you really miss consulting work?” Brian asks before Jimmy shoots him a look of disapproval.

“It’s fine. Yes, I still do sometimes. I must have if I decided to return, even for one case. Consulting feels normal; it’s hard not to have that crutch, but I get by,” Will answers.

“Things are certainly more work without you and-” Jimmy hesitates, “without you around. Work in general is a lot duller, too,” he finishes.

“Yeah, we really miss the weird shit you used to say at the lab. It kept things interesting,” Brian muses.

“The thoughts I shared paled in comparison to the ones actually brewing in my head,” Will replies.

Both of them stare at him before turning to each other and laughing.

“Like that! Where you, like, stare off and say something out of a teenager’s diary, like it’s just something normal.” Jimmy says, smile bittersweet, “We miss that.”

“I miss a time when I wasn’t like this. It gives me hope I wasn’t already,” Will says.

Jimmy and Brian silently share a look.

“...Like what?”

Will watches a garden snail climbing up a flower, shiny residue trailing behind. It reaches the top, falling over as it tips the petals down. He watches where it landed, upside down, struggling to right itself. Will deliberates for a moment before straightening his posture, tilting his head back to take in the sky.

He looks over to the pair, quietly waiting for his response.

“Changed.”

The two continue their awkward silence.

“See when you say things like that, that makes people think you’re guilty. You’re pretty lucky we have forensics because otherwise, it would have _really_ looked like you helped Hannibal murder the Tooth Fairy. And, you know, my husband and I would be out of a job,” Brian says. This time Jimmy smacks his hand, looking close to scolding him on the spot.

“He’s not _lucky_ , and don’t call him the Tooth Fairy. Creepy fucker, I’m still afraid he’ll come out with those snaggle-toothed dentures if we insult him,” Jimmy responds.

“I’m not giving a murderer any dignity! He’s dead! It’s ridiculous that you’re treating him like Voldemort because you think you’ll get nibbled on by the deceased,” Brian shouts back.

“Don’t say He Who Will not Be Named Either!” Jimmy replies.

“You can’t be serious, not again with th-”

“What was that about the murder?” Will interrupts.

Jimmy and Brian look at him incredulously.

“The murder. You said otherwise I would have looked guilty. What were you talking about?” Will continues.

“Uh- just that- on the surface, y’ know, it seemed like you plotted Hannibal’s escape by playing the FBI like a fiddle. If we didn’t have the technology to analyze the data and see what really happened, you’d probably be in police custody right now,” Jimmy says.

“And what do you think really happened?” Will asks.

“...That you two were kidnapped? And Hannibal shanked the guy to high heaven?” Brian says, chuckling, bewildered, “What are you talking about?”

Will, up until this point, was on his toes, anticipating the moment the FBI rush into his hospital, knocking down his door and ripping him out of bed, despite hearing from Jack that he isn’t a suspect. He never fathomed that there might never have been any suspicion towards him in the first place. If _He_ wanted to, he could’ve slipped away at any time, altered some furniture, some clothing, some weapon, to absolve Will of any culpability. It only would’ve taken a second. He can picture the moment _He_ placed a shred of evidence just right, or smelled something off of him, or nudged a suspicious clue under the rug. The thought comforts him.

“Nothing, it’s just that the bureau failed to inform me that I wasn’t a suspect. It seemed like I would’ve been brought in for sure,” Will says.

“Well if we went around telling every party involved in a crime who we believed to be guilty and who we didn’t, it wouldn’t be much of an investigation, would it?” Brian says.

“Nah, I just think Will’s not used to being out of the loop. After being a ‘special agent’ profiler for so long, being part of everyone else is discombobulating. Guess you’ll just have to read the details in the paper like a civilian, buddy,” Jimmy says.

“Like everyone else,” Will adds.

The two are quiet for a second before Jimmy furrows his brows and looks back to Will.

“Why were you sure you would’ve been a suspect?” He asks.

“I’m just not used to the evidence being in my favor is all,” Will says, staring off.

“In your favor as in truthful or in your favor as in convenient?” Jimmy asks, hesitant.

“Are you implying something, Dr. Price?” Will says. He’s half-joking, but knowing the man before them, the two are wary of the other half.

“It’s just like I said. You always say things that make you seem guilty,” Brian says, clearly trying to steer away.

“Oh, but didn’t you hear?” Will asks, “I’m the man who didn’t kill all those people.”

***

Will’s final visitor arrives when the air is humid, settling after the harsh weather. The flora and fauna all seem to sing together and rejoice the end of the storm, and thank the gift of the rain. He finds the sound of happy woodland creatures obnoxious today. The continuously delighted existence of the outside world feels like an insult to Will’s already festering corpse. He’s intelligent enough to understand that this is simply the nature of life, though a deeper, more primal part of him wants to extinguish the sun and shroud everything around him in darkness. Humans aren’t capable of imagining how the world continues to collapse and regrow outside of them, and their presence, or lack thereof, is all insignificant. The birds sang when Will was bleeding out on the beach, clinging to life. They will continue to sing when he is put to rest, an empty husk, undisturbed below the sand.

He wonders if the birds are singing wherever Hannibal is.

“I didn’t expect to be meeting you again, Will.”

Chiyoh.

She stands at the edge of the room as if to keep her distance, poised with her chin held high. Giving Will a once-over, she narrows her eyes before moving towards him. The outline of a pistol is pressed against her coat, which he is sure she placed intentionally. He finds her having a gun in a hospital ridiculous before he sheepishly remembers doing the same.

“Are you here for closure?” Will chuckles to himself. She furrows her eyebrows at him.

“I come bearing gifts. A gift, to be specific,” Chiyoh says. Opening her coat, she pulls a package from inside, wrapped in brown parchment paper and tied with twine. She holds it delicately, gazing at it for a moment before handing it to him. Will expects Chiyoh to just leave, yet she simply watches him, waiting for him to open it.

He rips it open carelessly, leaving a heap of paper and string on the floor. Beneath the wrapping is an old book with a brown hardcover. Confused, he turns it over, confused, and if he were honest, underwhelmed. Will skims through the stiff, yellowed pages for a while, inhaling the old book smell before flipping to the first page.

“Tales of a Wayside Inn?” he asks.

“A first edition copy. I implore you to turn the page,” Chiyoh replies.

His breath hitches as he reads the unmistakable cursive inscription.

_Dearest Chiyoh,_

_Consider this a beginning._

_With love, Hannibal_

“When I was employed as a maid at the Lecter estate, I was not a very educated girl. My family did not come from wealth, there was no opportunity for someone like me. I confided in him a desire to learn and rise beyond what I was given. Hannibal confided in me about his childhood as an orphan. He told me that his aunt and uncle had been a beginning for him. He gave me this book, one of his favorites from his uncle’s library, when we were young. I know this is often said, but that was truly a simpler time,” Chiyoh explains, bittersweet.

“Why… _why_ are you giving this to me?” Will asks, bewildered.

“You have been through great pain. I believe he would have wanted you to have this. A beginning,” Chiyoh says.

Will runs his thumb over the edges, settling on Hannibal’s written name.

“And… because the Hannibal I knew as a girl was never real. I know that now. But you- you bring out a part of him that reminds me of that boy I knew. You deserve to have this piece of him. I already did.”

Eyes welling up, Will stifles a cry, putting the back of his curled fist to his mouth. He stares at the book in front of him as if it were about to shatter in his hands. Then Chiyoh’s words reach him.

“Bring out?” he asks.

“What?”

“You said- you said bring out a part of him. Bring out,” he says.

Chiyoh doesn’t reply.

“Do you kn-”

Chiyoh moves closer, placing the book against his chest, startling him.

“Hannibal is here,” she says.

Will brings his hand over the book, his pulse thrumming against its pages. Chiyoh nods at him before turning to leave. He stutters to get words out, but he fails to speak before she closes the door behind her.

The copy of Tales of a Wayside Inn is laid upon his chest, rising and falling with his breathing. Will’s attention moves towards the floor, littered with the wrapping. Leaning over the side of his bed, Will reaches for it, straining against the many hospital instruments attached to him. He unfortunately reaches too far, toppling over onto the floor as his IV is ripped from his skin and his pulse oximeter is yanked off his finger. Will gathers up all the parchment and twine, straining to lift himself back onto the bed.

When he settles back into the indent his body has left against the mattress. Heaving and aching, Will picks through the wrapping paper, pulling the string away. He contemplates, unbothered by the heart monitor’s blaring alarm, and settles upon looping it around his finger, tying it with a lopsided bow.

The loud beeping beside him slowly fades into the background, finger adorned with a makeshift ring, hand pressed against his heart. Outside his window, the sky is dusted with purple and pink, a gradient of soft, pastel hues suspended across the pillowy clouds peppering the horizon. Will is comforted by the picturesque sunset while nurses rush into his room, a chorus of a far-off ringing filling the space.

***

It is only until the moment that Will is thrust out of the hospital doors with his pockets lighter and head heavy that he realizes: he has nowhere to go. The remaining weeks he spent decaying in his prison room across from nonabrasive abstract paintings and nondescript pleather couches all melted together with little interruption other than the occasional visit from Jack. 

If Jack noticed his ring, he didn’t mention it, which Will is thankful for. He found himself often shifting it back and forth on his finger to ground himself whenever he felt like he was slipping.

Now, standing out on the curb, in the modest coat and slacks Jack left for him, the weight of living finally drops back upon his shoulders. Will has nothing left. Will is alone.

He thanks himself in hindsight for choosing not to sell the house in Wolftrap. Will can recall Molly’s voice telling him that keeping the place was him keeping one foot out the door in their marriage. He remembers telling her that it was for purely sentimental reasons, and she had nothing to worry about. At the time, that sounded better than admitting selling the house wouldn’t prevent him from stepping out the door. Loving her was uncomplicated. Yet, Will can’t find himself feeling guilty for that or anything else. Paying for the bus fare back to Fairfax county with money Jack gave him didn’t make Will feel guilty in the slightest. It was the least the man could do considering he caused the collapse of his mental state. After ascending to the places he did, he believes himself bountiful in empathy yet lacking in sympathy.

Will, more surprisingly, didn’t even feel spiteful at Jack’s actions. Not because Jack was only doing his job, not because it saved people, not even because he believed they were contributing to something greater than themselves in the long run. He didn’t fully believe any of those things at all. There was a reason, one he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Midway through pondering that, the bus reached his stop. Will had taken the bus home once and now anticipates the long, arduous walk to his house that awaited him. Strangely, the hike only seemed to last a short while. He supposes he had gotten so proficient at detaching himself from time that nothing could last very long anymore. In another life, that could’ve been a virtue. However, this is his life.

Arriving at the doorstep of his house, a place that once felt like home is sobering after so much time. Will enters through the door, scraping the dirt from his shoes against the doorframe, muscle memory still preserved from a distant memory. From the entrance, it looks just like it did as he left it- a moment from a past life frozen in time, an ideal picture. Moving further inside, however, the partially collapsed roof and mildewy floorboards paint a clearer picture of an abandoned shack in the woods, left to atrophy, discarded from the rest of the world.

Will wonders to himself about the truth behind the sentiment that a house reflects its owner. He can imagine the universe being personified with a sense of humor if it left a detail such as this. Will wonders how much else he missed at the time that was right in front of him. 

Besides, obviously…

Up until this point, Will avoided so much as thinking of him, expecting it to hurt as much as he imagines it would. That pain seems inconsequential now compared to the taxing cost of repressing such an essential part of himself.

Finally away from the peering eyes of doctors, nurses, Jack, the moment he awaited for weeks, finally alone with his thoughts, Will finds himself woefully crushed by the weight of his neglected pain. 

So, here, where no one can see, he lets himself think of him.

“ _Hannibal_.”

He drops the book he had in a vice grip.

The spoken name is a disburden, a declaration, a response, and a plea all at once.

Crashing to his knees, heartsick and broken, pushed beyond all preconceived notions of “the edge,” Will collapses into a heap of his own misery. His days spent numb in the hospital were not so much efforts of strength than efforts to bury his sorrow. In the grave of his old self, that sorrow sprouted and pushed through, nourished by his very attempts to keep it below. 

While trying to pick at the scab of old wounds for some sliver of relief, it was torn back open, leaving Will in a mess of choking sobs on the floor, shuddering and clawing at himself, finally emoting at all for the first time in weeks. The wrenching pain deep in his gut creates a hollow emptiness, threatening to eat away at him until there is nothing left. His despair forms full-body aches that pulse in time with his choppy breaths, providing a rhythm to the ballad of his now breathless weeping. 

Will lies helplessly on the floor for what feels like hours, trying to wait out the wave of crippling debility and giving up when he realizes it’s there to stay. Surrendering to his heartbreak, he gathers himself up to search for whiskey to ease the hurting. He finds a bottle tucked away in the back of his pantry. Will takes a swig before hurtling himself onto his couch, now stiff and blanketed in a dense layer of dust from neglect. He picks the book up from where he dropped it, mindlessly thumbing through it until he notices a conspicuous gap somewhere towards the end. Will flips to it on page 224 and finds a strip of paper wedged in between the pages, held securely in place. Lifting it, he notices a break in the poem underneath, marked by a roman numeral four. It reads as follows:

_Ships that pass in the night, and speak to each other_

_in passing,_

_Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the_

_darkness ;_

_So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one_

_another,_

_Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and_

_a silence_

As Will holds the strip of paper closer, he is jarred by a sudden, overwhelming smell. In disbelief, he inhales the scent of it, catching a whiff of cheap cologne, an affront on his senses, yet indescribably familiar. He inhales again, deeper this time, trying to place the deja vu of the smell and failing. Feeling strange and nostalgic, he tucks the paper back into the book and returns to his drink, stretching out on the sofa.

Drowsy and buzzed, weary from the strain of crying, Will sheds his coat and props a flimsy couch pillow beneath his head. He can’t bring himself to fall asleep for hours, halted by thoughts swimming in frantic circles. Every time Will closes his eyes they become screens, projecting twisted home movie reels of his worst moments and biggest regrets. An image flashes, just for a moment, flickering with film scratches, of a girl in a bed of fallen leaves. Her hair is strewn around her face, freckles peeking from behind dark locks, eyes a heavenly blue. In his half-awareness, he can’t remember her name, only a feeling of warmth and tranquility. 

The chirping crickets and rustling trees outside lull Will into a quiet sleep, squeezing his eyes shut to chase that image.


	2. Chapter 2 - Bulviniai Blynai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to be following an update schedule of posting every two weeks on Wednesdays :)

On a humid, East coast beach Will splays out on the faintly coarse sand, clothed in the sun. He turns over lazily, reaching out to Hannibal beside him. He looks elegant with his wind-tossed hair, sweat framing his lip, sunkissed and backlit by the sparkling waves. Will's perception of his face is hazy and distant, and he tries, oh so desperately, to focus the image. Hannibal reaches a hand out to his cheek, but it's a phantom touch, no heat, no pressure. Will wants to say something, pour out all his thoughts and questions, but he can't manage to draw up the power to speak, and a sound is rushing louder beside them.

A shadow begins looming over him, the noise deafening, and the ground shakes beneath them, the sand shivering alongside him. Will scrambles to his feet but is unable to stand, forced to crawl backward on all fours, shaking with fear. The sand, once warm, is freezing cold where the shadow hangs over it. He looks up and sees the titanic wave overhead, threatening to overtake him and there being nothing he can do.

When he looks back to Hannibal, he can see his face with clarity for a moment, but only a moment, before the ground opens up and tall spires rise to impale him. He is held aloft, skewered by great towers of dark rock as the great wave hovers behind him. The tide seems to stop for a moment, suspended, and Will can hear words surrounding him.

"Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness."

He faces his reflection in the water, and wells up with tears.

"Then darkness again."

The wave speeds forward and breaks, crashing into him, drowning him in stinging cold.

Will wakes to the feeling of water, cold on his face. He opens his eyes sluggishly, startled by the drop of water that lands on his forehead. Getting up off the couch, he investigates the roof to find a cave-in holding a pool of rainwater from the previous few weeks' showers. Will figures finding something to occupy his mind before any unsavory thoughts can rush in.

"Broken roof. Roof's broken. Need to fix the roof."

Will chants it like a mantra, trying to fill the emptiness of his house with as much noise and faux purpose as he can. He fishes his homeowner's survival guide from a box in his attic where it lay gathering dust, considering he was getting rusty on his building knowledge. Oh, he can practically hear his father turning in his grave at the notion.

_Everything I teach you, you need to hold on to it. One day I won't be able to be here cleaning up your messes._

He often tried to teach Will 'life lessons' when he tagged along to his job sites, which more often than not ended him getting punished for not meeting his absurd expectations. After saying that, he handed him a hammer and looked at him expectantly. He feels like the universe has been handing him a hammer, or rather beating him with the head over it. The old bastard was right about something, at least; Will was damn good at finding himself in messes.

He picks up the book and notices the pages are wet and faded, rendering the thing unreadable. His new phone isn't going to arrive until tomorrow, one con of living in a smaller town is a lack of tech stores, not that he needs anything fancy. Scratch turning- his dad would be laughing right now that he can't rely on 'those there gadgets' to get out of this one.

Guess it's to the bookstore before the hardware store then.

Will takes a bus out to a town nearby, asking for directions to the nearest bookstore. He finds himself at the door of Reston's Used Book Shop, a cozy little place filled to the brim with a treasure trove of dusty old hardcovers and the kinds of chairs you could sink into. Deciding to linger, he spends time looking through the endlessly packed bookshelves before getting to the task at hand.

Tucked away in a pile is a general house repair guide that looks like it's from about the seventies. Flipping through, he finds a section on roofing and leaves the store content with his find.

Will treats himself to a coffee, humming to himself as he watches the rental boats leave the dock at Lake Anne. His mind begins to wander towards boats, boat engines, lakes, until he can hastily cut it off, gathering himself and making his way towards Home Depot. It's a bit of a trek, but walking through the rows of trees is comforting, like a saline rinse to his thoughts, flushing out the unwanted.

Will chuckles about how he must look, flipping through his cheat sheet carefully as he trolls the aisles for felt paper, shingles, and roofing tar. He peers closely at the tiny text, squinting as he tries and fails to absorb the instructions. After several more once overs, he finally gets a list of steps in his head and can make it out of the store without falling apart.

By the time he gets back home, it's nearly dark, but he's already determined to fix the roof by tonight.

'Tonight,' of course, in a more abstract sense.

Using his tools comes back to him like riding a bike, a skill still existing in an imprint in his muscle memory. By the time he's finished securing the last tile, the sun is already distending past the horizon, bathing the land in its early light. Will scans over his work, not terribly awful if he has anything to say about it, and sets down his nail gun.

He only realizes now that his mind has been empty the entire night, not a single second spent thinking about the past, about the phantom pain in his cheek, about him. Stretching out a limb that's gone unused for years occupied his brain and numbed his senses until the task was done, numbed in a way only booze and sleep have managed before.

Will's attention slowly drifts back to the length of twine wrapped around his finger, and his hands reach autonomously to touch it, dragging his fingers against the texture of it.

As Will lays back against the roof with the rising sun against his face, he thinks to himself-

_I need to get more books._

***

When Jack visits, he's greeted with the aroma of home cooking wafting from the kitchen. Will has gathered a humble collection of trade atlases and 'Insert Hobby Here: For Dummies' guide books that now stock his new bookshelf (which he built himself, of course).

"Smells like you're whipping up something good in here."

Will comes out of the kitchen with a tray of potato pancakes, donning an apron with blood splatters reading "Kiss the Cook, I Dare You."

"...Nice apron. Those latkes?" Jack asks.

"Bulviniai blynai, actually, and no, I don't think I pronounced that right. Thanks, by the way, I saw it at the store and mistakenly thought it would be less tasteless by the time I got home. I think the clerk recognized me, so I imagine I gave her a good story to tell," Will laughs.

"Bulviniai blynai… that's..?"

"Lithuanian."

"Ah," Jack says.

Jack is quiet as Will pulls out dishes and a bottle of scotch.

"Has the waking world been treating you well?" Jack asks.

He shrugs in response, serving them both drinks.

"I had since forgotten about the annoyance of a case manager. I barely remembered that I was alive before that vulture came hovering over my hospital bed, asking about my insurance," Will responds, taking a swig. "'S funny that I have enough experience with the ER; you'd think it wouldn't be such an ordeal anymore."

"Some unusual situations just refuse to become usual. We aren't equipped to expect the worst even after being dealt so many bad hands," Jack sighs.

"Well, one does learn to hold a good poker face," Will murmurs against his glass.

He looks back at Jack and mentally kicks himself.

"I never thanked you for your help. I- uh- it's… appreciated," Will stammers.

"No problem, I know how- you don't need to thank me," Jack says, staring at his drink that's been thus far untouched.

"You not drinking?" Will asks.

"No, I'm trying something, something different," Jack says, scratching his chin. "It's like… soul searching, I guess."

Will chuckles, incredulous, "Soul searching? That doesn't sound like you."

"Yeah, well, I don't feel like me either."

Pausing, Will blinks for a few seconds.

"Seems like that's going around," He replies quietly.

Jack leans forward and looks Will in the eye.

"How are you holding up, Will? Really?"

"As well as one can be holding up living alone in the woods," Will replies.

"You were living alone in the woods before," Jacks says.

"Yeah, except at the time I didn't know there was anything else."

Will nurses his drink, his shallow gulps the only sound in the pin-drop silence.

"Any plans to own a dog again? Dogs keep you sane," Jack says.

"I went by a pet shop a few days ago, saw some pups sleeping in the store window. Felt like I shouldn't, though," Will mutters.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jack pause to say something, a distressed look on his face, but he keeps quiet.

"I know it must be hard getting back on your feet, but I can only do so much. You have to promise me you're going to take care of yourself, that you have a plan," Jack says.

"Why _are_ you doing so much?" Will asks.

Jack sighs, setting his glass down.

"All I have left to do is help. I'm getting old, Will. The years I have left, I want to do right by people. I've had a whole life of making the difficult choices. I can't do it anymore. Just do me the favor of taking care of yourself. No matter what, I'm going to feel responsible if something happens,"

"Again. If something happens again," Will says.

Jack furrows his eyebrows and stares at the floor, looking beaten. He takes a sip of whiskey.

What short amount of time his visit lasts is spent quietly drinking, and Will leaves Jack with a tupperware of potato pancake and a polite smile that's gone the moment the door closes.

***

After Molly, fortunately not in person, dropped his car off at his cabin, his trips out of Wolftrap have become more frequent. In the following days, he's begun progressively spending more time outside of his house than in. Restocking his house to a liveable standard has been an arduous process, but Will has it down to needing only toiletries.

In the hair and skincare aisle of a drugstore, Will browses and fills his shopping cart with the cheapest of everything he can find, haphazardly tossing in items before he stops in his tracks.

In his hand is a bottle of aftershave. He hadn't even thought about it as he grabbed it, really, it was like second nature. It was simply what he does, what he's been doing.

Why has he been doing it?

Hannibal was right about that, as he was with most everything. The little contact Will had with his father was during Christmas, when a package arrived in the mail with no wrapping paper, containing a bottle of aftershave and a faded twenty dollar bill.

There was never a note, never any message.

Just a bottle of aftershave with, of course, a sailboat on the label.

The last time Will received one of those packages was a year ago.

While Molly held his hand like it was something fragile, telling him his father is in a better place, all Will could think about was that terrible aftershave. She ran her thumb over his and whispered in his ear that it would be okay, Will wondered if a good relationship with his father was ever possible. One of the last conversations he shared with him was in his freshman year of college when his father found out he missed two weeks of class and told him the only thing wrong with him was himself.

After he left, Will stood over the sink with the faucet running, staring at that ship on the bottle, trying to understand what it meant, wondering why he could never understand what anything meant, anything that mattered.

He didn't even realize that once he was gone, he kept wearing it. He must've reached for it at the store and went on his way countless times without realizing it.

Will doesn't want to think of what that means about him, or his dad, or-

He tosses the bottle in and leaves the aisle, heading to the self-checkout to save himself the mischance of small talk with the cashier.

Getting in the car, he heads towards Reston.

In a daze, Will looks through the shelves and grabs whatever he can get his hands on, barely reading the titles as he flips through them haphazardly.

"That's quite the reading list there."

Will turns around, startled.

"Ope, sorry about that, didn't mean to scare ya. You look like you're in quite the state," the employee says. She's older, long graying hair loose save for a small braid plaited with feathers. She adjusts her big round glasses on her crooked nose and beams with a warm smile.

"Yeah, no, I'm just trying out some hobbies," Will says.

She squints at him and glances at the books he's holding.

"I've seen you here before. Big plans on… pottery and cheesemaking?"

"Hah, just broadening my horizons," he replies.

"Oleen. Thomas," she says, extending a hand.

"Will. Graham," he says, anxiously shaking it. He shies away from her heavy eye contact.

"Oh, I know," Oleen says flippantly. "You need help with anything, Graham?"

"I think I'm done already, actually," Will answers.

"Of course."

At the register, she rings him up, sliding his receipt across the counter.

"Have a good day, Will Graham," Oleen says, holding eye contact the entire time.

He purses his lips into a thin line, nodding at her as he leaves.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" She asks.

Will looks back to his change, five dollars and twenty cents, left sitting on the counter.

He awkwardly fumbles for the money, books cradled in his arms, and makes his retreat.

Closing the door blears together with the car ride home. Will moves in a blur until he's met with his front door, which is swung wide open.

Will freezes in his driveway after slamming the car door shut, watching inside for movement. He reaches back inside to his glove compartment for his window breaker, moving slowly as he walks towards the entrance.

Creeping into the house, he grips tighter, unsettled.

He turns to the side and nearly jumps out of his skin.

" _Christ_ , Chiyoh."

She continues staring at him.

"If you were trying to get me to piss myself, mission accomplished," Will grumbles.

Chiyoh moves towards his dining room, setting her satchel down on the table. She reaches inside and pulls out a piece of paper, setting it down and sliding it across.

"What… is this?" Will says, scanning the paper, "This is…"

"Bulviniai blynai. Recipe," Chiyoh says.

Will looks at her, eyebrows furrowed, mouth hung ajar. He stutters before he can muster up the words.

"Were you spying on me?"

Chiyoh ignores the question and takes her coat off and starts going through his kitchen cabinets, opening drawers and rummaging through his things. Will watches, dumbfounded, not even moving to stop her.

"What- what do you think you're doing, exactly?"

She sets down the utensils in her hand and pauses, staring intently. Walking over to him she picks up the paper and pushes it against his chest.

"I will show you how to make it. The right way."

Will holds the paper against his chest as she walks back toward the kitchen, continuing to pull out bowls and spices.

He holds it there, stuck in place for a minute.

"Are you going to stand there?"

Snapping out of it, he comes over to her side, holding the recipe gingerly.

Chiyoh guides him through the process, quiet other than her directions. Every few steps, she chimes in to correct him, voice commanding yet encouraging. In another universe, he could see her as a mother.

When all is done and the potato is cooked golden brown, Will takes them off the pan and plates them with a garnish.

"Not the most impressive presentation, but it looks good," he says to himself.

"The taste is what's important," she says.

The two sit at the table across from each other and take a bite. The moment it hits his tongue, Will is filled with a sense of warmth and belonging, an unparalleled feeling of home that even his own house has never given him. It takes everything out of him not to leave his very seat and go run barefoot in the forest until his feet are raw, to lay in a field under the sun and watch it set.

"It's good," Will says.

Chiyoh nods, gathering her satchel and getting up to leave.

"You're not going to help clean up?" he asks.

Chiyoh shoots him a look.

"You threw me off a train, I think you still owe me that much."

She sighs, setting it back down on the table. Rolling up her sleeves, she turns on the faucet and starts piling dishes.

"Are we going to talk?" Will asks.

"No," she says, running the grater underwater.

"Alright. Just asking," he says.

Will picks up a bowl and a sponge.

"I'm trying to move past him, you know," he continues.

Chiyoh doesn't respond.

"I've been putting my life back together like a jigsaw puzzle. Getting all the little pieces."

She continues ignoring him.

"I heard Jack Crawford say he doesn't feel like himself. Alana Bloom was a wreck. I've been… I don't know how to describe what I've been. We've all been left with a scar in common. The elephant in every room. He's not even here and he's always… here," Will says.

"Can you hand me the pan?" Chiyoh asks.

"Uh- um, yes."

Will grabs the handle and hands it to her. Still focused on the dishes in front of her, Chiyoh grabs the pan and shoots a look at him, dropping it in the sink.

Showing him her hand, flushed red, she says between her teeth, "It was still hot."

She runs it underwater, and Will spares her the discomfort of watching him try to apologize.

"I have a first-aid kit in the bathroom," he mentions.

Chiyoh leaves him alone in the kitchen to tend to her burn.

Will's attention bounces around the room until it settles on her handbag, sitting on his dining table. It's no mystery she's been watching him, she hadn't even disputed that. Curiosity getting the better of him, he leans towards the hallway to see if she's watching and opens her bag to reach inside. He's not quite sure what he's looking for, but he feels a notepad and settles on that.

Listening for movement, Will tucks it in his pocket and closes the bag, shifting back into his seat as if nothing happened.

Chiyoh comes back later with her hand bandaged, looking afflicted.

"Thank you for inviting me into your home," she starts.

"I didn't." Will interrupts.

"Thank you for your time," Chiyoh says, putting on her coat, "You did very well."

"Yeah, well, you did a good job breaking in. Thank you, though, really, goodbye," He says.

“Otsukaresama deshita,” Chiyoh says with a nod.

Will gives a small wave as she walks out the door, shutting it behind her.

He presses his ear against it and waits until the sound of her footsteps recede into the distance to pull out the notepad.

The first few pages are a random assortment of numbers, grocery lists, and notes in Japanese. As he continues flipping through, however, what he sees makes his heart stop.

_Saturday_

_3:00 - Fell asleep_

_7:00 - Woke up_

_8:00 - Left house_

_9:00 - Had coffee_

_10:00 - Ordered lumber_

_11:00 - Began building furniture_

_3:00 - Lunch break_

_4:00 - Continued building furniture_

_8:00 - Finished building furniture_

_9:00 - Had dinner_

_10:00 - In bed_

"What the hell?" Will says under his breath, flipping through pages upon pages of detailed accounts of his whereabouts, actions, routines.

"What the hell _is_ this?"

His breath stops.

Under today's incomplete entry, right in between three and five o'clock, he sees it.

_4:00 - Bought aftershave. Thought of you._

"Thought of you."

Thought of you.

***

By the time Jack visits again, the place is overloaded with clutter, tools, gardening supplies, paintbrushes, yarn, and piles of paper decorating Will's house like he gutted a crafts store and spilled its entrails in his living room. Jack takes his hat off as he enters and looks on in disbelief.

"Wha-at am I lookin' at here, Will?"

He pokes his head out of the kitchen, arms around a mixing bowl.

"Oh, well, after you, Jack. What, is there a poster outside my door that says 'invite yourself in' or something?" Will says, trailing off at the end.

"I called. And knocked. Five times. Too good to have a drink or something, Graham?" Jack says, chuckling.

Will disappears into the kitchen and comes back out with another bowl and a strainer. He doesn't acknowledge Jack at all.

Jack blinks at him, raising his arms in the air in bafflement.

"Are you... feeling okay?" Jack asks.

Will's eyes scan the ground as if trying to remember something, biting his lip in concentration.

"Will!"

His attention darts back to Jack, and he tilts his head in confusion.

"What?"

"Have you taken a look around lately?" Jack begins shouting.

"The house is fine." Will shrugs.

"I'm not talking about the house," Jack says, rubbing his fingers between his eyebrows. "You promised me you would take care of yourself!"

"I am," Will says in a small voice.

Jack sighs and starts clearing the table of clutter. Will hastily grabs for everything Jack's holding.

"Stop, don't- don't take anything," Will says.

"I'm going to help you."

"I don't need help."

Jack throws everything on the table with a loud thud.

"I'm going to help you; otherwise, I'm going to yell and make accusations, and I don't want to do that anymore!"

"I'm not some sick puppy that needs watching. We're not FBI anymore, Jack, there aren't any 'accusations' to be making here," Will says back.

"Oh, are we doing this? Alright, we're doing this. Why haven't you gotten a job, Will? Why are you making Lithuanian food, Will? Why didn't you get a dog, Will? What, do you not want to get attached to something you might have to leave behind?"

"Okay, alright. Alright! While we're getting things off our chest, I've been waiting years for this one. Fuck you, Jack," Will says, gripping the knife off the cutting board, hands trembling. "Fuck. You."

"Will. Put that down, and come here," Jack says, voice guarded.

"Every conversation, every moment is suspended in this state of- of taboo. Like we all have to carry it with us. I don't want to think about him. I don't even-"

"Will, your _hand_ ," Jack shouts over him.

Looking down, Will sees the blood streaming around his palm, where he's holding the knife by the blade. He keeps holding it for a few seconds longer, completely numb.

"That looks like it might need stitches, let me take you to the ER. Now, that's a polite way of saying I'm taking you to the ER, and there's nothing you can do about it," Jack says, grabbing his coat while Will wraps his hand in a washcloth.

During the ride over, Will can't stop the tremor in his hands or the painful throbbing in his chest. He can't focus with the squeaking sounds of scraping metal in Jack's car or the scraping of tires against the asphalt. The unrelenting cadence of noise makes his skin itch, so he closes his eyes and leaves the scene entirely.

The passing glare of street lamps behind his eyes swirl into a steady glow of warm sunlight, and he's met with the comforting sound of a rushing stream. He feels the weight of a backpack on his shoulders and the pressure of hiking boots at his ankles.

"Hey, stranger," Abigail laughs. "It's been a while."

Will looks at her, all-encompassed by fondness and an abstract sense of loss.

"Too long."

"You have any other cool Dad Tips this time around?" she asks.

"We'll see. You know how to tie any knots?" Will asks.

"You think I can't tie a clove hitch one-handed? I'm wounded," she replies, pouting her lip tauntingly.

"Square knot? Figure-eight? Barrel hitch?" he asks.

"Yes, yes, and yes. I wasn't raised under a rock," Abigail says.

Will raises an eyebrow.

"...Double fisherman's?" he asks with a sly smile.

Abigail purses her lips as Will chuckles.

"Okay, little Ms. Muir, let me show you how to tie one," he says. "This is a real useful one my dad taught me in some of our nation's finest national parks."

While pulling out a length of rope, she snatches it out of his hand, grabbing it by the ends.

"Loop this end around twice... And through… The other end around and through… Tighten the ends… And pull together," she says, handing him the final result.

Will stares wide-eyed at the knot in his hands.

"Also known as the true lovers' knot, used for joining two lengths of rope," she adds.

He can't help but grin from ear to ear.

"Guess you got me there. That is some handiwork, Abigail. Almost brings a tear to my eye," Will says with a smile.

"Only the best. Guess those many summers of outdoor boot camp he put me through paid off," she replies.

Will smiles at her and looks at the sun barely grazing the horizon.

"Are you okay, dad?"

He turns back toward her and nods, playfully mussing the hair on the top of her head.

"Of course, just dealing with some things. Always am," Will says.

"You haven't said a word about him," she says softly.

Will hands her the knot back.

"Don't want to."

Abigail scoots closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"I lost him too," Abigail says. "I saw what you saw on that notepad.

"You found hope, and you're trying to crush it. If something inside of you hurts, it makes you want to just cut it out of you. No matter how much it would destroy you, as long as the pain isn't coming from anything else. It's still inside you, though. If your heart's in pain, don't kill yourself trying to claw it out. I spent a long time making the same mistake. It's hard accepting that something will always be part of you. It's even harder accepting that's a part of you that you like. But that's how you survive."

Will doesn't look in her direction.

"You didn't even survive. You're not even here."

He hears her sniffle next to him and move closer, putting her arms around his shoulders, face pressed into his arm.

"I wish I could've been," she says. Her voice sounds far-off, and her presence beside him feels distant. Will turns to hug her, tears threatening to fall as he catches the scent of something coppery and feels something warm staining his shirt up against her neck.

When Will opens his eyes, he's sitting in Jack's car, and a glance at his hands presents him with a neat row of stitches. They're already back, parked outside his house and Jack is watching him expectantly, waiting for him to get out.

"If you're trying to conjure up a way to say thank you, you don't need to. I promise. Severance and retirement were good to me, I can handle a little ER bill." Jack says.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry. I still, uh, appreciate it," Will responds.

Jack laughs to himself.

"I know that look. Out fishing? The entire time?" he asks.

"Yeah, something like that," Will answers.

He opens the car door and waits before turning back.

"I'm sorry. I haven't been… I don't… I don't know what to do, Jack," Will says helplessly.

"None of us do, Will. Just keep looking. You'll find out."

Jack gives him a half-hearted smile before driving off, leaving Will standing alone in front of his porch. He looks back at the daunting figure of his house before him, the windows like looming eyes staring down at him.

Will thinks about Abigail's words, still lingering in his mind. His cabin has been a vacant husk for so long now and standing outside, alone in the cold, he sees the empty shell.

Hope sits at the bottom of his heart, crying out for attention. Will considers listening to it, giving it a place in himself, letting it grow.

He thinks to himself, 'not yet.'

Not yet.

Will opens the door and shed his coat, pressing his back against the door and letting out a full-bodied sigh. As he looks toward his dining room, however, he notices a gift basket wrapped in plastic sitting on the table.

"What do we have here?" Will murmurs to himself, turning it over.

The gift is like a prepackaged kit of toiletries with bags of chocolate and toffee, looking as if it came from the store. Opening it, he pulls out soap, deodorant, shaving cream, aftershave, and cologne, nothing particularly of interest, until he sees the note attached to the basket.

_Get well soon, dear._

_PS. It does have a ship on the bottle. How charming._

The neat cursive handwriting pulls the hope up into his throat, lighting up his stomach, sending electricity through his nerves.

He picks up the note, holding it tenderly.

Will suddenly remembers something, scrambling to open the cap of each bottle, smelling each one in a frenzy. Looking at the aftershave again, it's the brand he uses, the brand he always received at Christmas, but not the smell he's looking for.

When he opens the cologne, he inhales again, deeply, taking in the smell. That's it, he's sure of it. Will goes through his bookshelf, looking for it, throwing books onto the floor until he sees it.

Tales of a Wayside Inn.

Opening it up to the right place, he sees the strip of paper right where he left it, wedged between the pages.

It's faint, but the smell is still there.

Will lays down on the floor, surrounded by books and loose papers trying to steady his heaving breaths.

He feels the hope beating in his chest, threatening to crawl into his mouth.

He finally, finally surrenders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually looked around Wolf Trap on Google maps for inspiration, which was really interesting!  
> Comments and kudos fuel me don't be shy <3


	3. Author's Note

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh bad news

Due to complications I will not be able to continue this fic at the schedule I planned. Having started school and medical transition, among other things, I can't say when I will be able to keep writing, or when another a chapter may come out, which is a bummer, I know. I'm really upset about this but with the workload I currently have I can't make it work. That being said, if you are willing to wait, I still completely intend to finish at some point, just not for the forseeable future. Chapter 3 has a good amount of pages finished but I simply don't have the time right now. Thank you to anyone who enjoyed reading, I will return as soon as I can. <3

**Author's Note:**

> <.<  
> >.>  
> You can find me on my tumblr: [lattewolf](http://lattewolf.tumblr.com/)


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